


Turn Your Head and Cough; or, The Checkup

by Findswoman



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Doctors & Physicians, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Medical Professionals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2019-01-30 20:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12660840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: Zeb goes in for his mandatory Rebel Alliance physical examination. I probably don’t need to say much more than that. Consider yourselves warned. (Don't worry, there's nothing gross or explicit.)





	Turn Your Head and Cough; or, The Checkup

Zeb’s mood was one of uncharacteristic gloom as he sat on the edge of the examination table, clad in nothing but an uncomfortably undersized flimsiplast gown that tied in front. Once again that dreaded time had come: time for the crew of the _Ghost_ to go in for the biannual physical examination the Rebel Alliance required of all its non-droid personnel. This, as far as Zeb could tell, was the single worst drawback to being part of a larger Rebellion. Back when the _Ghost_ had been working on its own to fight the Empire, there had been none of this irksome business of being poked and prodded by medics on freezing-cold surfaces. Not to mention that not one of said medics knew the first thing about Lasat physiology.  
  
At least, he thought, there was some small comfort in the fact that, somewhere in the infirmary complex of Chopper Base, that pesky Ezra, too, was sitting on an examination table wearing nothing a flimsiplast gown. Well, _all_ of them were—but Ezra was the only one Zeb was actually gloating about, of course.  
  
It was cold in the room. Zeb shifted uncomfortably on the table, and as he did his eyes fell on the hem of his own gown, which barely cleared mid-thigh. It was a pale sea-green color that clashed egregiously with his downy purple fur. _Karabast,_ he thought to himself, _about three Ezras could fit in this thing, but it barely covers me. I bet_ he’s _not cold…_  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
The door opened, and in shuffled a diminutive being with slender pointed ears, a long, mouselike snout, and slightly graying blue-green fur, wearing a white coat. Zeb wasn’t sure, but it looked as though the patch on one lapel of the coat read DEEBEENEEBEEDEE FLHASKHALHOOSA, M.D.  
  
“Master… erm… Aurelius, I presume?” said the newcomer in a high-pitched, accented voice whose origins Zeb couldn’t quite place.  
  
“Orrelios. Garazeb Orrelios.”  
  
“I am Dr. Deebeeneebeedee Flhaskhalhoosa. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  
  
_You don’t say,_ Zeb thought wryly to himself. Tentatively he accepted the tiny, fur-covered hand proffered by the doctor, and tried not to bristle too visibly at the prickle of the tiny claws protruding from it.  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
“So yes, now, let’s see here.” Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa went over to the computer terminal on the wall of the room, tagged the key card that hung around his neck, and peered intently at the resulting records screen. “M’yes. Forty Standard years of age, nonsmoker, no use of mind-altering substances. Good, good. It looks as though you are scheduled for the routine Alliance physical today, Master Orrelios.”  
  
“That’s what they tell me.”  
  
“Good. Then let us begin. Please extend your left arm.”  
  
Zeb did so, and for the longest ten seconds that he had ever experienced, Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa took his pulse with two minuscule clawed fingers while watching the wall chrono.  
  
“52.” He entered it into the terminal on the wall. “A bit sedentary, but within normal range. You are, after all, rather—”  
  
“Big. Yes, I know. No need to rub it in.”  
  
“Now your blood pressure.” The doctor glanced at the slightly outdated sphygmomanometer apparatus that hung from the wall, then at Zeb’s arm. “Hmm. It looks as though we may need the size-double- _dorn_ sleeve. One moment…”  
  
Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa rummaged in a nearby cabinet before producing a sleeve that was easily three times the size of the one currently attached to the apparatus. He detached that one, replaced it with the new one, and slid it over the immense purple-striped arm before him; it was a slightly tight fit even before the machine started working. At least it did not take long to do its job, and in mere moments two numbers appeared on its readout.  
  
“138 over 85. Hmm. Perhaps a touch high.”  
  
_Karabast, this again._ It had happened at the last exam too. “I’ll have you know that’s perfectly normal for a Lasat male my age,” Zeb growled.  
  
“I shall have to confirm that with my colleagues later. For now I shall make a note of it on your record.” The doctor tapped something into the computer terminal. “There. Now let us continue.” He took a disposable flimsiplast mask from a drawer and fitted it over his snout, then climbed onto a stepstool beside the exam table. “If you could please look straight ahead, open your mouth, and say ‘ _aaahh…_ ’”  
  
“AAAAAAAHHH.”  
  
Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa staggered for a moment at the sudden blast, almost falling off the stepstool, but managed to regain his footing. He then proceeded to peer intently into Zeb’s mouth, then his nose, then his ears, each time with a different small, uncomfortable lighted device and each time making concerned little grunting noises. Next the uncanny little blue-green claws palpated Zeb’s neck and below his ears for swollen glands; it was all the Lasat could do not to reel and twitch at their ticklish touch. After that, the doctor checked his reflexes by hitting him in the knee with a small rubber mallet. The resulting kick threw the diminutive doctor against the wall, leading him to declare his patient’s reflexes “exceptional.”  
  
“And now, if you would please untie your gown from the waist up, I shall listen to your heart, lungs, and intestines.”  
  
Sheepishly, Zeb complied. The doctor placed an ice-cold stethoscope on the left side of his chest, looked baffled for a few moments, and then moved it the right side. ( _Further proof,_ Zeb considered grimly, _that this furry little gremlin of an M.D. has no knowledge of Lasat physiology, or he would know that we have the heart on the right._ ) Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa then proceeded to place the stethoscope on each of Zeb’s underarms, then on his back, and then on his abdomen (where he held it for several extra seconds). Finally he went to the computer terminal and tapped in the results, all the while murmuring “Normal, normal, good, good…”  
  
“So, is that all, then?” Zeb asked, his eyes wide with hope. _It had better be…_  
  
“Weeeellll, let’s see here…” Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa squinted at the screen for several moments. Then, all of a sudden, something caught his eye. “Ah, yes! I almost forgot! Master Orrelios, since this is your first examination since your fortieth lifeday, it looks as though a hernia check is required as well.”  
  
“A… hernia check?” _This doesn’t sound good…_  
  
“Yes. It is required of all male mammalian sentients age forty and over.” The doctor pulled a pair of plastex gloves from a box on the counter and snapped them onto his clawed hands. _This_ really _doesn’t sound good…_  
  
“It may feel slightly uncomfortable for a few moments,” continued Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa, “but it is brief. And now, Master Orrelios, if I might ask you to stand right over there… that’s good… On the count of three, I am going to ask you to turn your head and cough... one… two… three…”  
  
_Aw, karabast…_  
  
* * *  
  
The exam was brief, as promised, but Zeb wanted to hole up in a nice cave and die. Not once in all his forty dust seasons had he ever felt such an uncomfortable and humiliating sensation. Those _accursed little teeny tiny SCRATCHY CLAWED HANDS! Both_ of them! On his—  
  
A shudder convulsed him. _No. Mustn’t think of it._  
  
At least everything had been declared normal, and he had been allowed to put his own clothing back on afterward. “So, is that all?” he asked again, hopefully, expectantly, once Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa reentered the room.  
  
“There is just one more thing, Master Orrelios.”  
  
And then, to Zeb’s absolute horror, the doctor handed him a small, transparent plastoid jar. It had a tight-fitting cap and a label that read ORRELIOS GARAZEB / LASAT / M, followed by a barcode.  
  
“If you could please bring that to the lab when you are finished…”  
  
* * *  
  
“Karabast, karabast, _karabast,_ KARABAST, _KARABAST!!_ ”  
  
Zeb stood in one of the many hallways of the Chopper Base infirmary. In his hand was the small plastoid jar with the label and tight-fitting cap, now filled with yellowish-green liquid. Since exiting the ’fresher two minutes ago, he (and the jar) had made about five full circuits of the hallways on this level—with no sign whatsoever of the lab. In the meantime, he had received quizzical looks from several passing medical droids—none of whom, it seemed, were programmed to direct patients to other parts of the complex.  
  
There weren’t enough _karabasts_ in the entire Galaxy to express the sheer breadth and depth of the frustration he was feeling. First to be squeezed into undersized flimsiplast gowns and blood-pressure sleeves, then poked and prodded in sensitive spots by tiny claws and icy stethoscopes, and now lost in the halls of Chopper Base carrying a karking _specimen jar,_ for crying out loud… was it possible, he wondered, as he reached the end of the hallway, for things get any worse?  
  
And just then they did.  
  
No sooner had he turned the corner than he came face to face with a familiar young Human with tousled blue-black hair and olive skin—who was also carrying a small, transparent plastoid jar.  
  
“EZRA?!!”  
  
“Um, hi, Zeb.”  
  
Time seemed to stand still as the two of them stood there, frozen in utter mortified silence. When at last Zeb spoke, it was in hushed, grim tones.  
  
“We shall never, ever, _ever_ speak of this again. Understand?”  
  
“Uh, deal,” came the barely audible reply.  
  
“Good.” Zeb began to walk on, but Ezra gave him a timid tap on the arm.  
  
“Say, Zeb—”  
  
“ _What?!_ ”  
  
“If you’re, um, looking for the lab, um, I think—I think it might be on the second floor.”  
  
And without another word, they made for the stairwell as quickly as they could. ¶

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on a sort of dare from Raissa Baiard, over two days while I was bored at the office.
> 
> Deebeeneebeedee Flhaskhalhoosa, M.D., is an OC and a Squib. The proliferation of flhs and lhs and similar in his name was inspired by a Squib name created by Ewok_Poet in her Doaba Ke’demii—The Diary of a Young Comradette: Flheesooslheesoo Poloomaantee. And why, you may ask, is he not using the wacky speech pattern and copious “you bets” that are established to be characteristic of his species? Well… because he’s a highly educated Squib who went to medical school, that’s why. :p
> 
> The placement of the Lasat heart on the right side is completely fanon. Of course, the fact that so little is known about their biology reflects the fact that, at this point in Galactic history, there are only very few of them left. :(


End file.
